"Don't you think there is always something very sad about last days in places?"

Beverly laughed, and cast an amused glance at his companion's sober face. He and Marjorie were trotting leisurely along a road where the trees met overhead in summer, although now the boughs were leafless, and there was a light covering of snow on the ground. It was their last afternoon in Virginia, and they were making the most of it, despite a lowering sky, and a frostiness in the air, which threatened more snow before night.

"Just think," Marjorie went on mournfully, "I sha'n't have another ride for five whole months. School doesn't close till the first of June."

"Why don't you ride in the park? Lots of girls do, you know. Ask your uncle to hire a horse for you from the riding academy."

Marjorie blushed.

"I don't like to," she said, frankly. "Uncle Henry and Aunt Julia are doing so much for me already, I don't think I ought to ask for anything more. Elsie doesn't ride in New York."

"Well, I have no doubt she could if she wanted to. I imagine Miss Elsie generally gets what she wants."

"You don't like Elsie, do you?" The words were out before Marjorie realized she had uttered them. The next moment she wished she had not asked the question.

"No, I don't," said Beverly, honestly.

"I'm sorry; I wish you did; she's so clever, and—and there are lots of nice things about her. You see, she is an only child, and her father and mother worship her. I suppose she can't help being a little spoiled."

"Well, you are an only child, too, and I have no doubt your family are as fond of you as Elsie's are of her, but you are not spoiled."

Marjorie was silent. She felt that loyalty to her cousin required her to say something in Elsie's defence, and yet what could she say? After a moment's silence Beverly went on.

"I should like your cousin a lot better if she resigned from being president of that Club."

"She—she tore up the poem," faltered Marjorie. "She said it was trash. I don't think she meant to do anything mean, but she is so clever, she couldn't bear to have any other poem better than hers."

"You're a loyal little soul, Marjorie," said Beverly, approvingly, "but all you can say won't alter the fact that your cousin did a mean, contemptible thing. She knows I found her out, and she hasn't looked me straight in the face since. I don't like sneaks in girls any better than in boys."

Marjorie felt the conversation had gone far enough. She did not wish to discuss Elsie even with Beverly Randolph, although the two had become great friends during the past ten days, so after a little pause, she changed the subject by asking her companion if he did not think they had better be turning towards home.

Beverly glanced at his watch.

"I suppose we'd better," he said, reluctantly. "I hate to cut our last ride short, but Mammy will be heart-broken if we keep her waffles waiting."

"I'm so glad we are going to Mammy's cabin," Marjorie said, as they turned the horses' heads in a homeward direction. "It makes me think of so many things I have read. Don't you remember in 'Uncle Tom's Cabin,' how George Selby used to slip away from the big house, and go down to Uncle Tom's for waffles and fried chicken? Mammy is such an old dear; I do want to hear her talk again."

"She certainly is a character," said Beverly, laughing. "We'll get her to tell some anecdotes about Barbara and me. According to Mammy I must have been a pickle."

Marjorie was conscious of a feeling of relief at having successfully turned the conversation away from Elsie and her affairs, and she and Beverly chatted on pleasantly until they reached Mammy's cabin, where they dismounted and Beverly tied the horses to the hitching post. Mammy was on the watch for them, and gave them a hearty welcome.

"Now you jes lay off yo' tings, and set down by de fiah," she commanded, placing chairs for the visitors, "an' I'll have dem waffles done in a jiffy. Lor', Mas'r Bev'ly, it jes' does my heart good to see you settin' heah in my kitchen, like you used to do when you an' Miss Babs—now Mas'r Bev'ly, don't you tease my Josephus; he mighty 'telligent cat, he is. He won't stan' no foolin'."

"He's a beauty," said Marjorie, stooping to stroke the big maltese, who responded to the caress by springing on the arm of her chair.

Mammy beamed with satisfaction.

"Josephus likes you fust rate, Missy," she said, approvingly. "He don't make friends with mos' folks; he's too 'ristocratic. He knows what's what, Josephus does."

"Mammy is the most delicious snob," laughed Beverly; "she only allows Josephus to associate with aristocratic cats. All the unfortunate plebeian cats in the neighborhood are driven away with a stick."

"Cose dey is," declared Mammy, indignantly. "What yo s'pose I want common, no-'count cats botherin' round heah for? Ain't I always lived in de most 'ristocratic Virginia fam'lies, and wasn't my paw own body-servant to ole General Putnam, an' my maw bought by Mas'r Randolph's father when she weren't more'n ten years old, an' brought up in de house, to be maid to de young ladies? I'se lived in de fust fam'lies, I has, and I'm proud of it, too."

"What a perfectly heavenly place!" whispered Marjorie to Beverly, with a glance round the neat little kitchen, as the old negress bustled away intent on household duties.

"You must get Mammy to show you the family photographs before we go," said Beverly; "she has quite a gallery, and can give you the separate history of each picture. Ah, here come the waffles. Nobody can beat you on waffles, Mammy."

The old woman grinned.

"Cose dey cyan't," she said, placidly. "Dere cyan't nobody in dese parts beat me on waffles and corn-bread. Folks comes askin' for my recipes, but it ain't de recipe dat does it, it's de light hand. Now Mas'r Bev'ly, don't you take de whole dishful; dere's plenty more comin'. Lor' sakes, Missy, you jes' oughter seen de way dat boy would go in for waffles an' maple syrup when he was little. Do you 'member de day, Mas'r Bev'ly, when yo maw was havin' lot of comp'ny for tea, an' yo' an' Miss Babs sneaked into de pantry, and eat up all de lobster salad 'fo' de comp'ny got a chance to have it? What a swattin' I did give de two of you' for dat!"

"Yes, indeed I remember it," said Beverly, laughing. "I deserved the 'swatting' more than Babs did, for she was only four and I was eight."

"Dat's true; but yo' bofe deserved it bad enough. Lordie! How dat chile Babs could stuff! Notin' ever hurted her, and de wust of it was, she didn't mind castor oil no more'n if it was molasses. Have some more syrup, Missy; waffles ain't no good without plenty of syrup. You was forever gettin' Miss Babs into mischief, Mas'r Bev'ly. I'll never forget de day I dressed de two of you in yo' best white suits, cause yo' grandmother Randolph was comin' on a visit, an' de minute my back was turned you was bofe off to de swamp. My, what sights you was when I found you! Miss Babs had tumbled in, an' yo' two faces was as black as mine, and you was all over black mud. You bofe got a good whippin', an' was put to bed in de middle of de day, but Lordie! What good did it do? Miss Babs was sound asleep in ten minutes, and never woke up till nex' mornin'. Nottin' ever upset her fo' long; God bless her."

The old woman's voice grew very gentle and Beverly, who had been smiling over the childish reminiscences, grew suddenly grave. But Mammy was a cheerful soul, and she did not intend to sadden the young people's visit.

"Well, de Lord has his reasons, I s'pose," she said, with a sigh, "but dey does seem hard to make out sometimes. Jes' 'scuse me one minute; I got some hot ones on de fiah."

When Marjorie and Beverly had eaten so many waffles that they felt as though they should not require anything more in the way of food for days, Mammy reluctantly desisted from her hospitable efforts to force another plateful upon her visitors, and the hospitably entertained young people rose to go.

"I've had a lovely time," declared Marjorie, heartily. "It was dear of you to let me come, Mammy; I shall never forget it."

"Any frien' of de Randolph fam'ly is always welcome to my cabin," said Mammy, with the air of a queen dispensing hospitality to her subjects. "Would you like to see de fam'ly pictures 'fo' you go?"

Marjorie said she would like nothing better, and while Beverly went out to untie the horses, she followed Mammy into her tiny bedroom, the walls of which were literally covered with photographs.

"Dis," announced Mammy, pausing in the doorway, and pointing to a gentleman in uniform, "is Mas'r Will Randolph, Mas'r Bev'ly's gran'father, took in de clothes he wore when he went to de wah. Dis lady is his wife, de mis' Randolph dat brought up my maw; a gran' lady she was too. Dis is Mas'r Bev'ly's father when he went away to school, jes after de wah was over. Dis one is Mas'r Bev'ly's maw in her first ball dress. Dat's Mas'r Bev'ly when he was a baby, and here's Miss Babs in her fust short clothes. Over on dis side is Mas'r Bev'ly when he was seven, and dis is—oh, good Lordie, Missy, whatever is de matter?"

Marjorie—who had been following Mammy from one photograph to another, with amused interest—had suddenly uttered a sharp cry of astonishment, and was staring blankly at the photograph of a girl of twelve, which was occupying the place of honor over Mammy's bed.

"Who—who is that?" she gasped, seizing the old woman's arm, and beginning to tremble with excitement.

"Dat Miss Babs, took jes' 'fo' she went away to Californy," said Mammy, sadly. "Land sakes, Missy! What is it? You jes' sit right down heah, an' I'll go call Mas'r Bev'ly."

When Beverly appeared in answer to Mammy's hasty summons, he found Marjorie ghastly white, and shaking from head to foot.

"Good gracious, Marjorie!" exclaimed the boy, springing to her side, "what's the matter? Don't you feel well—is it the waffles?"

"It's—it's Undine!" faltered Marjorie, with shaking lips, and she pointed to the photograph on which her eyes still rested, in a wild, incredulous stare.

"'Undine,'" repeated Beverly, stupidly, "who is Undine? That is the picture of my sister Barbara."

"It's Undine," repeated Marjorie, with obstinate persistence; "it's exactly like her; I would know her anywhere."

"But who is Undine? I never even heard of her?"

"Yes, you did; I told you about her once, and you said I mustn't mention her to your mother, because she was hurt in the earthquake. We called her Undine, because she couldn't remember her real name, or anything that happened to her before the earthquake. That's her photograph, Beverly, I tell you it is—it is!"

Beverly had grown very pale, but he made a great effort at self-control.

"Don't talk nonsense, Marjorie," he said, almost angrily; "I tell you that is my sister's photograph. I can show you another just like it at home."

"Beverly," cried Marjorie, clasping her hands, and speaking in a tone of sudden conviction, "I am not talking nonsense. That is the picture of the girl who has been at the ranch since last August. She was found in the street just after the earthquake, half buried under some ruins. She was unconscious, and they took her to a hospital. She has never been able to remember anything about herself since. Your sister was in the earthquake, too; you think she was killed, but perhaps—oh, Beverly dear, let us go home quick, and tell your uncle all about it."

Mrs. Randolph was in the library reading. Twice she had put down her book, and gone to the window to look out. It was growing dark, and had begun to snow.

"How late they are," she said to herself, with an anxious glance at the clock. "They ought to be back by this time, but I suppose they have stayed listening to Mammy's stories, and forgotten the time."

She sat down again by the fire, and took up her book. But she was feeling restless and nervous that afternoon, though she could not have told why, and after reading a page, she closed the book again.

"I wish they would come," she said, impatiently. "No one knows what may have happened; they may never have reached Mammy's cabin. I think I will go and speak to George. He will laugh at me for worrying, but that will be better than sitting here by myself. There's the clock striking six; they should have been in an hour ago."

She rose, and was moving towards the door when she heard an approaching footstep, and in another moment her brother-in-law himself came into the room.

"I was just coming to look for you, George," she said; "I am getting a little anxious about the children."

"The children are all right," said the doctor, quietly, sinking into the arm-chair by the fire; "they came in half an hour ago, and have gone to their rooms. Marjorie was feeling a little upset, and I advised her to go and lie down till dinner-time."

Mrs. Randolph turned towards the door again.

"I think I will go and see if there is anything I can do for her," she said. "It isn't like Marjorie to give up; I'm afraid she isn't well."

But Dr. Randolph held out a detaining hand.

"Sit down, Barbara," he said, "I want to talk to you. There is nothing the matter with Marjorie or Beverly either. They have had a long ride, and stopped at Mammy's for waffles. I want to ask you a favor. I have just received some important news, which will necessitate my going West at once, and I want you to let Beverly go with me."

Mrs. Randolph was very much surprised.

"But, George dear," she remonstrated gently, "college begins again on Monday—do you think it wise to take the boy away just now?"

"I shall not be gone more than a week, and I want Beverly for company. He has never seen much of his own country, and this trip to Arizona will do him an immense amount of good. As for college, a few days more or less won't make any material difference, and he can make up for lost time when he gets back."

Mrs. Randolph still looked doubtful, but the doctor was Beverly's guardian, and since her husband's death she had been accustomed to depend upon his judgment and advice. So instead of arguing the point, she only said:

"Of course he may go if you think best, George, only it does seem foolish to take him away so soon again after his holidays."

"I do think it best, Barbara," said the doctor, decidedly. "I want the boy with me very much. I must start as soon as possible. Do you think you could persuade Emma Patterson to go home with you and Marjorie to-morrow, and stay till Beverly and I come back?"

"I can try," said Mrs. Randolph, who was still unconvinced of the wisdom of this sudden whim of her brother-in-law's, and a little uneasy as well. "Emma has promised to visit us later; perhaps she would be willing to come now instead. You know, George dear, I never ask you about your cases, but this seems so very sudden—are you going to see a patient?"

"Yes," said the doctor, quietly. "I may be able to tell you more about the case when I come back, but I cannot now."

Mrs. Randolph regarded him anxiously.

"I am afraid you are not well, George," she said, "you are dreadfully pale. Is that why you don't want to take this long journey alone?"

"Not exactly. I am perfectly well, but—well, the fact is, this may prove a very trying business, and I want the boy with me."

"Then you shall certainly have him," said Mrs. Randolph, with decision. "Have you spoken to Beverly on the subject?"

"Yes, and he is most anxious to go. Now I must make arrangements about accommodations on the train, for I want to be off early in the morning, if possible. Wouldn't it be a good idea to telephone Emma Patterson at once, and see if she can be ready to go with you and Marjorie?"

Mrs. Randolph stood for a moment, looking after her brother-in-law as he left the room.

"There is something wrong," she said: "I never saw George so agitated before. I wish I knew what it was, but doctors don't like to be questioned. I hate to have Beverly lose a whole week of college, but if his uncle needs him, I have nothing more to say." And, with a resigned sigh, she went away to telephone to her cousin, Mrs. Patterson.